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I am finding that I want to break things all the time. I want to scream and punch and stomp. And I have no tolerance for any added frustration. I want to destroy everything—most especially me. I am angry. I’m angry at me, at all my inabilities, shortcomings, and failures. I’m angry that I let other people define me or that I gave them reason to define me as they did.


The assumption that life is a universally desirable endeavor—a sacred absolute—makes no sense. People can list all sorts of reasons for insisting that life is important or valuable. But really the only legitimate reason to stop someone’s suicide is for the sake of those who will be left behind.


I changed my clothes so that I could try to exercise, but I was only able to take a few steps out of the closet before my whole body started internally contracting. I crumpled up on the floor and started to cry.


I saw a doctor today. As I sat slumped down on the couch across from her trying to stave off the tears that were welling up behind the words coming out of my mouth, I had to resist the incredible and embarrassing urge to cover up by throwing my winter parka over my head.


Sometimes the dog refuses to go into her crate at night. I guess her eagerness to please or her sense of duty aren’t as strong as her desire to resist feeling and being caged and alone. Caged and alone every night—seems kind of cruel and senseless.